One naughty encounter (leads to more)
by Puttefujs
Summary: Thing is: love has never been an easy phenomenon for Castiel. He's socially awkward – and to put a cherry on top, sort of a virgin. He's just turned nineteen this summer, still having nearly allergic reactions to physical contact with other people. But then there's this handsome stranger in the supermarket - and Castiel promptly knows that he has fallen head first. AU - Smut.
1. Hello, stranger

**WARNING: **

**Contains very intimate scenes between two of same gender - penetration and what follows suit.**

**Leave a review when you're done! Much appreciated. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

'_'Dean, - De-**an**,'' he haphazardly hisses under his breath for each affirming thrust, cheek flattened against the marble tiles of the cold kitchen counter. The name varies in his mouth, so light and merry to pronounce, leaving Castiel's swollen lips with a drawn moan quickly after another. He can hear Dean grunt from behind, soothing hands running along his thighs, once in a while grasping his buttock with a firm squeeze._

* * *

_Earlier this fine day._

He strolls past a shelf, releasing yet another fatigued exhale through his nose - lips thinned in a tight line. ''They don't even harbor any toilet paper anymore in this section,'' He states flatly under his breath. His blue eyes are sent scanning the whole area again, yet in vain. If there is possibly anything that may be capable of making Castiel Novak mad, it is the lack of human necessaries in grocery stores.

He's about to walk into another random, re-decorated shelf when a sudden husky noise appears next to him, filling his ears in a delicate way he'll never admit found place.

''They're in the opposite direction, dude.''  
He stops for a bit, taking a peek over his shoulder to glare at the stranger - and also at the section where he's headed at. The stranger is very tall, though only taller by a few daring centimetres than Castiel. Emerald liquid sparkles ferociously in those eyes, a lopsided smirk perched upon the handsome strangers plump lips.

Wait a minute – how come Castiel even remarks such details?Nnevermind.

''Oh,'' he responds, a little taken back by actually receiving an answer at all. ''Yeah. Thanks,'' He subsequently answers, gratitude and somehow relief obvious in his voice.  
He follows the man tentatively, taking a tad distance in order not to seem creepy or anything alike it. He doesn't want to be rude.

The stranger is right though – about the toilet paper, that is. They must have redecorated the whereabouts of the variants in the store – how unfortunate. Castiel quickly reaches for a package, only to be surprised when a firm hand brushes his own.

Apparently, they reach for the same package, and Castiel swears he forgets how to in- and exhale for about a second or two. He flinches a bit, shooting the stranger an apologetic smile when he excuses himself and takes another one. The guy flamboyantly smiles with that sort of secure smile that sends a peculiar feeling crackling Castiel's kneecaps, and then proceeds to move on to another section – seemingly undisturbed by the occurence.

Castiel goes by the belief that he might be dying on the inside. The dirty-blonde haired man shoots Castiel a wink and goes off with a casual ''See you.''

''Yes- I – Bye,'' Castiel shouts back, a little insecure. This is really fucked up in a whole new level of fucked-up-ness. Castiel, the guy who is known to be very well-formulated, calm and firmly bound to earth- is flabbergasted. And perhaps – MAYBE harboring a tiny, sudden schoolgirl crush on an attractive stranger he doesn't know the name of.

Thing is: love has never been an easy phenomenon for Castiel. He's socially awkward – and to put a cherry to top, sort of a virgin. By saying that, he doesn't count in the _accident _at a Scout Summer camp a year ago, whereas it is to be mentioned that he was a hundred percent drunk and barely remembered what had happened the day after. And he's just turned nineteen this summer, still having nearly allergic reactions to physical contact with other people.

Mission ingore-the-attractive-stranger-that-keeps-smiling- at-you-and-whom-you-secretly-are-fangirling-over is not going very well. In fact, it is going so very, and certainly bad in a depressing way, bad- that Castiel considers fleeing out of the supermarket while he can still maintain his composure intact. _**THIS IS NOT GOING AS PLANNED**_, he ponders aggressively as he is about to walk straight into another shelf when he catches a glimpse of that smile again.

He returns to his state of ease for a short amount of time, taking a deep breath whilst facing the opposite direction of where the stranger stands so finely and flaunts his fuck-me-i-am-willing-look-at-me-Castiel-ness. Castiel gathers some more stuff before heading to the cash register woman, eyes at downcast the whole way up there in order not to meet the strangers eyes on the way.

As if it couldn't get any worse, the stranger follows suit and places himself behind him, literally radiating Castiel-look-at-me-I-know-you-want-to aura. Castiel can hear the flapping wings of his heterosexuality flying out of the window, diminishing into daylight the more time passes by.

Don't look back.

Don't greet him.

Oh, the cash register woman is smiling, isn't she pretty?

Doesn't she have a lovely smile?

Not as great as the man behind him though. Her voice is soft too, how wonderful.

But still not as appealing as the husky voice of the handsome stranger.

Castiel considers letting his knees budge and thus fall to the ground, whispering 'i_nner peace_' whilst hugging himself tightly. He's sweating like a sinner in his fathers church, as if being eyed by the very Novak origin himself.

When he's done and the woman hands him the recipt, he returns a strained smile and gathers his groceries into a bag, eyeing the stranger carefully a few times - _or just the whole fucking time because hey why not be creepy amidst it. _

Castiel is about to... though sort of distractedly – flee out of the supermarket, about to take his leave when _that _voice once more reaches his ears. He perks up, eyes slightly wide and a bit curious as he turns around and faces the stranger, more than entitled to know the reasoning to why the stranger would consider taking contact. He licks his chapped lips absently, blue bonding with green.

''Hey,'' the stranger tuts, breaking into another example of a lopsided, charming smile. Castiel shifts his weight on his feet, shoes tapping strenuously against the linoleum floor. ''Hello,'' is the respond, almost a faint croak.

''Dean Winchester,'' he reaches a hand forward, awaiting Castiel's reaction with an amused, cocked brow.

Castiel swallows a lump of uneasiness, inhaling deeply before clasping his hand into the stranger's, giving him a firm handshake. ''Castiel Novak.''

* * *

And before he is capable of coordinating what direction is up and what is down, he is in a stranger's home – kitchen, so to speak, nearly being kissed unconscious by plump lips passionately moving against his own. Castiel flails a bit with his arms, unknowing of where to put them. Dean is to help, though, merrily – and with a taunting quirk of his lips, carefully grasping Castiel's wrists, easing them down to rest against the edge of the kitchen counter. ''Shh, just let me spoil you, _baby_,'' he whispers – it's so filthy and foreign to Castiel, but it goes straight down to his groin, leaving him whimpering impatiently in return.

Dean leans forward once more, planting shy kisses along the ravenhaired's jaw line. He's mapping out his body, starting from the beginning and slowly moving downwards. Probing a tongue out and along the delicate skin on Castiel's throat, he draws unexpected moans from the man, each one sending a shiver to shrivel up and down his spine. ''Mhh, you like that, _Cas_?'' Dean groans, sucking on whatever patch of skin he can find. Whilst at it, he scoot an unnoticed hand down the length of Castiel's torso, swooping it underneath the fabric of his thin flannel t-shirt, unbuttoning the yielding buttons on the way.

Knuckles turning white by the force he uses, Castiel's grips the edge of the counter as if it depends his very life, mouth slightly agape as peculiar noises eases its way up his throat. It doesn't sound like him, so light and _desperate _and _submissive_. He is the source of those sounds, and it leaves a hot blush streaking across his pale cheeks timidly. Dean's firm hands are roaming along Castiel's chest and abdomen, so eager it's almost making Castiel topple over. Accidentally brushing a wily finger over one of Castiel's nipples, the blue eyed leans into the touch, inquring he wants more, hands losing their nonetheless tightened grip around the edge of the counter. Dean brings them into another heated, open-mouthed kiss, hands incessantly spoiling wished spots of Castiel's chest. Their tongues meet in a tangle of dominance quick to be chosen, Dean swiping his tongue along his lower lip, requesting entrance.

Castiel's hands finds it as an utterly unfair task to obedienty lay still, and they snake up Dean's solid shape, around his waist to bring him much more closer. He somehow hoises himself into the width of Dean's body, pressing against him in a distant, clumsy grind. A snarl is what he gets in return, raspy words filling his patience to the brim. ''You want me to touch you, Cas?'' He whispers when they break apart, eyes glazed with seductive promises and filthy suggestions. Castiel's cheeks are tinted with pink, wide blue eyes ingesting the display in front of him. ''Pl...,'' he tightens his grip around dean, attempting to tug him closer, ''_please,_ Dean,'' he rasps, gravel voice fading into a whimper by the end of it, ''**touch me**, _please._''

Dean obligies without any complaint.

Slowly, he presses a flat hand to Castiel's stomach, making him lay back against and on the counter completely. Pupils dilated, flustered obvious, breath urgent and shirt unbuttoned, Castiel sure is a sight for sore eyes. Dean can hungrily observe and interpret every detail for as long as possible, but an incessant throbbing in his lower regions leaves him craving for _much more. _

He leans over Castiel bit by bit, hands absently stroking along his sides as he presses a wet kiss to his navel, dipping his tongue out and circling it inside the soft shape. Castiel keens in return, fingers searching distraction whilst he rests his hands on Dean's broad shoulders, running his slender fingers through the softness of his dirty-blonde tufts.

Things running smoothly, Dean unzips his black trousers, immediately sweeping a hand underneath the elastic band of his briefs when in sight. Castiel barely manages to register what is happening before he is muffled by another expand of vibrant notes, breaths leaving in quick heaves of his chest as he bites his lower lip forcefully. ''Dean,'' he gasps at the foreign feeling, a shudder travelling throughout his body when he can feel a taunting flutter of Dean's hand along his member. A brief, smug grin is what he receives, followed by a blazing feeling of something hot pooling in the pit of his stomach.

He arches up and into the touch, only to be surprised how Dean almost rips his underwear down to his thighs, thus freeing his length. Castiel hisses at this, enjoying the feeling of the snug air cling to him.

''Look at you,'' he growls, voice utterly unfair to mankind – rasp and filled with lust. ''_**So eager and desperate**_.''

Castiel nearly jerks away by the overwhelming feelings dawning upon him, Dean gripping his length with a firm grasp, working on him in a stable pace.

Castiel digs his heels into the drawers underneath the top of the counter, voice growing more and more loud for each stroke. But before he knows what is happening, the movements abruptly stops, and he looks up, a whimper escaping his lips, reminding of disapproval – disappointment. He can see Dean unzipping his own trousers, and if he wasn't blushing before, he sure is now.

Dean notices Castiel's discomfort and curiosity at the sudden choice, and he flashes a lopsided, reassuring grin, cocking a brow. Once more, he leans in and over Castiel, this time reaching two fingers up to his face, settling them against his pink lips softly, prodding there. ''Suck,'' he says – in a mix between a demand and a soft suggestion. Castiel doesn't mind though, and in the haze, he obediently opens his mouth and allows his the fingers to sink into his mouth, poking lightly at his tongue. He swirls his tongue around them, wetting them meticulously, moaning all the while – not too very innocently enjoying the predatory glare he receives from the man above him.

He mouths another heavy sigh against his fingers, teeth lightly dragging across the skin. A loud popping noise emerges when Dean withdraw them, and Castiel's heart nearly stops breating when he puts them into his own mouth, taking a light suck before settling them between Castiel's thighs. His grin is boyish, so sassy but at the same time charming. ''You ready?'' He asks, and Castiel nods. He feels safe, and at the same time hazed by all these emotions, feelings and the continuous throbbing occurring in his lower regions.

Castiel hisses softly at the friction of the first finger intruding. It doesn't hurt at all yet, but the feeling is far from familiar. He squirms lightly, only to be held back in place by a hand caressing his thigh. The throbbing has been lulled to a deep, infuriating taunting ache, but it still haunts him nonetheless, erection clinging to his stomach in _want_. He gasps lightly when another digit joins in, stretching past the tight, now expanded ring muscles. Dean is incredibly patient, shooshing small reassuring tunes and random babble as he continues to go slow, to caress his tigh all the while. He leans down and plants a few kisses to his chest, moving upwards to meet Castiel's lips.

Third finger breaching, Castiel whimper – but is muffled by Deans lips on his own, tongue tangling in yet another eventful dare. His breath hitches when the unoccupied hand travels down the length of his thigh, yanking down in the edge of the trousers, thus making Castiel capable of spreading his legs any further. The fabric is now loosely dangling at his feet, shoes still on, pants down and shirt drawn up, but not off. It's so messy – and Castiel _loves_ it.

Dean contributes with a low moan himself as Castiel daringly sucks on his tongue, subsequently nipping lightly at his lower, plump lip. It sends a spark reverberating throughout Castiel's system, goosebumps appearing on his skin because _mmh_- he'd like to hear more of that. Sooner or later, the feeling of the fingers breaching him doesn't feel too uncomfortable, and something inside him is lit with a blazing heat when Dean crooks the tips inside him, reaching a spot that makes Castiel release an unexcpectant, loud keen into the kiss. At first he groans unintelligible , small words – that over first languid attempts turns into the syllables; ''More_, more, __**more**__._''

He begins to rock himself into Dean's touch, meeting him by tugging him at his shoulders, indicating that he wants _**more**_. He can feel Dean grin in foxy manners into the kiss, slowly beginning to respond with groans by the sudden grinding.

Dean withdraws himself all of sudden, using the counter as leverage as he pants a bit, tongue swiping over his kissable, swollen lips. Despite lacking in experience, Castiel knows what is going to happen now – knows what he so desperately is seeking during these circumstances. ''Fuck,'' he prompts, blinking a little owlishly at the word. It sounds peculiar and tastes weird in his mouth, though nonetheless, it just _fits in_, and he feels so rebellious, not having being allowed to swear at any occasions before. ''Fuck me,'' he _begs_, chest heaving in swift movements due the lack of air from snogging. ''_**Fuck me,**_'' he repeats, because goddamn if he is ready – sure as hell he'd accept getting fucked in public right now – as long as it happens, as long as he gets to hear Dean moan his name, fill him and mark him.

Dean is literally fuming of need, warmth and something unknown. His usually emerald eyes are nearly succumbed into a dark, onyx colour, matching Castiel's night black hair – pupils dilated. Hands somewhat forcefully grasping Castiel's hips, he flips him onto his front before he is even capable of registering what is occurring. He pins the man against the counter, warm breath spilling over his bare back as he grits out a ''I won't go easy on you,'' and Castiel's eyes rolls back in his skull, arching himself back to feel the friction of the harsh grinding. But then, Dean leaves in a wisk of a vast breeze, the warmth against Castiel's back gone. A tad curious, he eyes Dean in a determined pace make his way out of the kitchen, yapping a quick ''Lube,'' over his shoulder with a wink.

In the meantime, he mourns a bit due the loss of warmth – the affirming feeling of Dean's hands on him, green eyes bonded with his own. He raises himsef the slightest, peeking down at his own body, how his erection is caught between his own weigth and the kitchen counter, pre-cum smeared onto the white marble tiles. He feels a surge of embarrassment wavering over him, ears tinted with pink for a brief amount of time – though smiling at the situation altogether. He happens to notice something he didn't remark before – how empty the house actually is, as if they've just moved in, despite not too many filled and empty boxes are present to proove it.

* * *

He has nearly forgotten what sort of situation he is currently so finely nestled amidst, but the realisation comes in a rush of need, the noise of shoes tapping against wooden stairs reverberating in the house – confirming that Dean is still here. Castiel can't precisely describe the excited feeling when Dean appears in the door frame, shirt now discarded and a bottle of lubrication nestled in his hand. His grin is bright, and he offers another brilliant wink, Castiel barely preventing from blushing hotly at the gesture.

Castiel sucks in a breath of snug air when Dean promptly smacks his left buttock, letting it lingering there with a squeeze, grinning devilishly. It stings in a defiantly comfortable way, feeling how a red mark is soon to appear. ''Missed me?'' he purrs into Castiel's ear, suddenly just _there_, probing his tongue out to let it run along his earlobe in a brief gesture. Castiel shudders and nods timidly, panting a little breathless ''yes.''

He can feel how Dean rustles behind him, and the noise of fabric being yanked down is very loud in his ears. ''Can I...,'' Castiel suddenly asks, surprised of how gravelly his voice sounds like.

Dean perks up behind him, leaning in to look at him in curiosity.

''Can I get a kiss?'' He asks tentatively, very much aware of how his cheeks are prickling by now – even his neck a tad. Dean beams at this, almost grinding down at him to reach his face, planing soft kisses to his cheek – subsequently leading him into yet another open-mouthed kiss from askew. It's a bit straining, but it feels just as good as the other kisses, and Castiel raises himself slightly, sighing contently when he can feel Dean snakes a hand around his abdomen, resting it just above his navel and across the end of his ribcage to hold him up. The root of his abdomen is arched into the counter, leaning back into Dean's touch – and he can feel it, sense how something warm and thick is pressing against the split of his buttocks. Moaning, he closes his eyes, saying a silent plea for Dean to continue.

They draw apart, and Dean looks downwards at the occuring motions between Castiel and him. He rearranges himself a tad, blindly reaching for the lubrication with his unoccupied hand, and his hand surronding Castiel's waist slides back for him to handle the coating. Castiel lays down again, watching with content interest over his shoulder - the expression Dean makes when he smears some of the lubrication along his lenghth – how his jaw tightens and his eyes closes in a pulse of urges. As if it isn't enough to simply bestow glares at the other man's toned chest and gorgeous face, Castiel's glare travels further down – and he watches how Dean gives himself a languid stroke. A sudden throb reminds him how much _need_ is rushing through his veins.

''_D-Dean_,'' he whispers, so faint and tentative, but Dean hears it, and his eyes burns with passion when he holds his chin high once more, bestowing Castiel a controlled glare. This time he's not smiling, but the hunger is obvious, and he raises a daring brow. ''Tell me,'' Dean bites out, and now the devilish tug at the corners of his lips appears. Castiel shivers at the severe tone he takes use of, how _demanding_ it is. Castiel flattens on the counter, resting fully against it whilst propping his ass up in view, a bit guarded and utterly embarrassed as he wiggles the tiniest bit in hopefully tempting manners. ''Fuck me Dean – _**please.**_''

At this, Dean snaps. His eyes become hooded in a warning matter, and he licks his lips absently.

He arranges himself behind Castiel, and though the urgency to get off is overwhelming, he makes sure to go slow, to let Castiel adjust, to make him feel comfortable. When Castiel can feel the tip of his length prod against his hole, it feels much more bigger than what he had expected. He squirms a bit, but Dean is to keep him in place, both hands planted firmly on each hip. He dips down and spreads small, feather-light kisses along Castiel's spine, all the while he continues to prod and thrust a tad forward, taking his time to let Castiel adjust. The lubricant is cold – unlike Dean himself, and therefore he hisses under his breath, a soft complaint. Though, in the midst of the haze, he can hear Dean release a mellow moan – providing to ease his nerves. ''Fuck, cas – **you feel so good.**''

Castiel has his eyes forcefully closed, attempting to endure the sudden surge of pain without complaining too much. Though, suddenly he can hear Dean laugh quietly from behind him, and he perks up and takes a peek over his shoulder to glance at him with curious, blue eyes. He realizes it, sees how Dean is fully sheathed inside him, his ass flush against Dean – and abruptly, the grim stinging diminishes. A breath he didn't know he has had captured leaves his chest, and a lively feeling wavers inside his stomach.

It is a strange, yet enticing and satisfying feeling perching him to the brim – Dean rutting against him, first in complication, a bit tentative, yet continuing into a more or less stable pace. Now Castiel is not the only one keening, and Dean pipes in with a few – surprisingly light moans, some of them shaped like hungry snarls of obsessiveness. Dean leans down to press flush against Castiel for a moment, pressing another kiss to the damp skin there, dragging his teeth along the milky white skin. ''Y_ou're so fucking delicious,_'' he whispers, almost breathless.

The burn in his rear end has now turned into a distant ache, and now something else replaces it – the feeling of being _full_, the feeling of Dean against him, the noises – Dean's voice, the noise of skin slapping against one another sending a tremor through his body, cheek flattening against the marble tiles as he opens his mouth, moaning urgent; ''Dean, D_e-an_, _yes,_ **Dean**.''

Dean gives Castiel's buttock a tight squeeze as he _rams_ into him, the drawer whereas their knees are knocked against yielding a soft creak for each thrust. Dean has slowly begun to moan Castiel's name in return, each thrust getting more and more _desperate_, patience vanished into thin air by now. His hands closes around Castiel's hips, taking his strength as an advantage, and Castiel rocks back in return the more blazing the heat pooling in his stomach grows.

The thrusting has turned into less patient and long movements, small snaps of his hips sending Castiel pressured against the counter. They're both panting heavily, and Castiel feels like his skin is on fire, every movement sending a tremor of pleasure down his spine, through his system. This peculiar feeling from before wells up in the pit of his stomach, growing persistent and almost blinding – spoiling his body. Knowing what is about to happen – he gasps out a throathy ''I'm-'' _thrust_ ''_ah_'' _thrust_ ''_**I'm**__-'' - _and Dean understands fully, snarling a hasty ''Me too''.

He spreads his arms out in front of himself, gripping the edge of the opposite counter. With another forceful thrust, it is enough to send Castiel toppling the edge, and he comes whilst moaning an urgent, breathy ''_**De-ahn'**_''.

He collapses completely against the cold marble surface, and even though it's cold, it feels so warm – everything is on fire, his body feels warm, comfortable and he feels blinded for a moment. He can feel the faint movements behind him – quickly followed by a cry of Castiel's name as the movements slows down, Dean releasing his content inside Castiel.

It's silent – besides the filling noises of Castiel and Dean's heavy breathing. Castiel's voice feels worn-out, raspy and used, he sighs happily, if not tired, and closes his eyes for a moment. Dean leans forward and ruffles Castiel's hair in a soothing movement, moving down to plant a loving kiss to his rigth shoulder blade.

* * *

If this might just be a one-night stand, regular and loving sex must be **brilliant**, Castiel thinks. Something sinks in his stomach though by the thought of it, because this had been... He... He doesn't want to leave – not yet. He feels a sudden possessives toward Dean – toward this handsome, caring stranger, whom has been an absolutely gentleman to him. He cannot happen to notice the loving feel blossoming in the pit of his stomach by the thought of - perhaps holding hands with him, or watch a movie in the dim light of crappy lamps and a television.

''Dean,'' he murmurs, languidly opening his eyes and dares taking a peek at the man behind him. Dean glares at him with a fond smile. It quickly disappears when he sees the serious expression adorning Castiel's features. ''What is it, Cas?'' He asks – and he sounds genuinely worried for a moment. He withdraws himself from the man with an embarrassing plopping noise, Castiel blushing ferociously whilst his eyes are downcast.

''What is _this_?'' He asks carefully, words guarded. He raises himself, surprised to feel a twinge of soreness occur along his spine. He's read about sexual intercourse between males before, but seemingly, the pain should first arise after rest or hours of limbs held in a passive mode. Dean quirks a brow at him, questioning. ''This?'' He repeats, making a few pondering movements with his hands.

''Us,'' Castiel timidly says, hand sent rubbing the lower part of his back soothingly. Dean continues to look a little worried, hand joining in to caress his hip. He recieves a tender smile for the gesture.

Dean tucks his member into his underwear again, yanking them up, followed by his pants, which haven't really made it that far, only tugged down by a few inches. When he looks back at Castiel, his eyes are awfully honest – exposed with something peculiar, yet reassuring. ''We can be whatever you want us to be,'' he explains.

''Dinner at Ellen's tomorrow at eight?'' He subsequently offers.

Castiel cannot help but to allow a sigh of relief leave his lips, a bright smile tugging the corners. ''I would gladly participate.''

Dean grins cheekily, he turns around and gathers some paper towels, cocking a brow at Castiel in mock-humor when facing him again. Castiel didn't know he was capable of blushing _this goddamn much_ – and he nods merrily, spreading his legs a bit to make space for Dean to wipe off the semen currently dripping along his thigh – not to mention Castiel's own cum smeared along his abdomen (_and the poor kitchen counter)_.

Afterwards, Dean helps putting Castiel's pants in right place, taking into account how Castiel is literally incapable of performing such motions due... the ache in his back and rear-end, ahem.

Castiel is sent jumping three meters into the air when a sudden third voice appears, a flabbergasted noise escaping the youngster standing in the kitchen door frame. ''_**DEAN?! **_In the goddamn _kitchen_, **oh my god** – I can't believe you!'' The shaggy haired boy whines. ''Sammy, come on- be a little less rude to my boyfriend,'' he laughs in return, not sounding groggy or apologetic at all.

_Boyfriend?_

Sammy – or Sam, as Sam snappily corrects with a puppy-like pout, is polite and approaches Castiel anyway besides the uncomfortable encounter, reaching his hand forward for a handshake. Castiel blinks for a moment before he says, ''I- I do not think you would like to do that considering the circumstances that has found place.'' Sam cringes a bit at the mental image he just got, but he nods in acknowledgement anyway.

''Castiel, that's a weird name,'' Sam comments when he introduces himself, earning a jab in the ribcage from Dean. ''Like the angel of Thursday, yes.'' Castiel smiles.

When Castiel leaves, Dean is left staring somehow longingly out of the window, eyeing Castiel with comical complications turn down the street and disappear. He sighs.

''Is he your boyfriend?'' Sam asks, words guarded.

Dean turns around and faces him, smilling a bit. ''I really like him, man. It's – It's weird, yanno. We've just met- but- it's- There's something about him...,'' he trails off.

He sighs again. ''But we won't be here for long- Dad says so, so there's no fretting 'bout it,'' he hastily murmurs, eyes at downcast in a sullen gesture.

''I don't think he'd 'capable of liking me when he gets to kno' who I really am. They never do.''

''I think you're wrong,'' Sam objects with a knowing glare, smile faint on his lips – fond.

Dean stares at him for a moment – and then fixes his glare back at the street outside again. Tomorrow – eight – at Ellen's. A warm feeling blossoms in his veins.

* * *

**Enjoyable? **

**Anything you like, dislike - ideas? Review. 8) **

**Thank you for reading. **


	2. Goodbye, stranger

I am **so** glad that you like the story! It was originally meant to be a one-shot, but your responses were so BRILLIANT! And I got this wonderful idea for the story.

So now, here you will get a view of Castiel's mind. I certainly hope you will enjoy.

Tell me what you like, what you don't and so on. Much appreciated – keep the reviews coming.

Enjoy!

* * *

He can feel the anticipation roll underneath his skin as if small strikes of lightning are wavering throughout his nerves, knuckles turning white by constantly balling his fists. This is it, Castiel thinks. The night. The first time he'll go on a real date – a date whereas he can consider it themed romantic, something worth being excited for – worth thinking of when the sun is to arise again and a new day will begin. He might leave with a fond kiss, an appreciated hug – or even more likely, some more of that warm feeling in his stomach from _before._ From when they had done _things_ on that kitchen counter – in Dean's house, sort of a semi-public place. The magic sparks arises in Castiel's stomach, and he grins greatly, taking a turn in front of the mirror for what might be the fifth time. Scrawny is not the word to describe Castiel, but bulky is not either to provide. He's normal – if not a little slender regarding his stomach and hips, but a fading set of primary muscles flexes when he grins once more, which is just fine. Unlike Dean, he hasn't got that obvious set of muscles, those broad shoulders and strong biceps, but is – as his mother usually says, _delicate._

_''You're fucking delicious, Cas.'' _

He is reminded of those words Dean lustful had groaned into his skin, dapper voice praising him like he's a gift sent from above.

This is not a profitable time to pop a boner.

He hurriedly applies some deo, taking a hesitant sniff to check if he smells okay – despite just having taken a bath a half hour ago. His hair is still a bit damp, but already beginning to scruff up the slightest, earning that soft-looking feature that people usually tend to compliment on.

''**Cassie**?'' A sudden voice behind him emerges, heavily coated in a british accent. Castiel hurriedly turns around, facing one of his older brothers, eyes wide as he observes how Balthazar's sight is sent travelling toward his bed, scrutinizing the clothes neatly folded there. ''Is that a tie?'' He subsequently asks, treading into the room to inspect it closer. It will be hilarious and outright stupid if Castiel is to answer with a sullen, lying 'no – Balthazar, it is not. You must be seeing wrong. - and instead he just nods. Completely defeated on forehand.

''Who is the lucky woman... or man?'' Balthazar asks, eyes gleaming in what might be identified as excitement. Excitement for his brother. The idea is kind to Castiel, and he bares a little slip at the corners of his mouth, tutting softly. ''A person, '' Castiel responds, avoiding eye contact. He's blushing by now – he _knows _it, but he can't help it at all. Love is such a foreign, strange thing – it's like an event to encounter it in a snap of fingers.

Balthazar's laugh reverberates in the light room, and he settles himself down on the king-sized bed, crossing his legs. ''I have never been one to assume for you to establish profound relationships with animals anyway,'' is the answer, mock-humour obvious in his voice. He looks disappointed – but only for peek of fun and pranks.

Castiel snickers himself, turning around to scrutinize his form in the mirror one last time. ''Do I look profite?'' He asks in wonder, looking at Balthazar in the reflect of the mirror. ''You're one handsome young man, you know,'' Balthazar explains, raising a brow. ''Too bad you've been using it in the wrong way.'' Castiel rolls his eyes.

''I am aware of your hatred concerning my trench coats and formal wear,'' Castiel says flatly. He flexes his muscles once more in the mirror, only brief – to make sure that they're actually there. Dean and Castiel are like two whole different persons regarding their body shapes, despite Dean only being a tad taller. Well, enough for Castiel to tilt his head a little whilst conversing with him.

''Let me help you pick some clothes. Your date is going to be bored just by _looking_ at you,'' Balthazar yaps, and before Castiel is capable of turning him down, the brother is already deeply hidden inside Castiel's walk-in closet. Yes. Being nurtured – not to mention sons and daughter of a very wealthy family has its advantages. Not that Castiel in reality uses much of the advantages that occurs, but the expensive furniture and clothes are a matter of course to the Novak family, apparently. Besides, having as many frequently visitors (which width mostly reaches the brothers whom have moved out long time ago), the mansion they live in is _very_ appreciated. And Castiel is the youngest – and sometimes he feels a bit _left behind_. The burden of being the youngest, innocent brother rests on his shoulders heavily.

Anyway, Castiel does not _want_ the expensive gifts, in which are inserted the moment he dares lifting a finger if in need of anything, and bluntly spoken, he cannot wait to move out. Don't get the wrong idea – Castiel is fond of his parents, but the wealth is _straining_. The craved manners and eloquent vocabulary attached to the title '**Novak**' is tiring, and may become annoying sometimes. When he was smaller, he had trouble getting friends due his way of formulating his sentences, his perspective of life, the polite intentions and the love he harbored and still harbors for humanity – it was all _too much_. So much knowledge wasn't _normal – _and therefore Castiel stamples himself as being social awkward, incapable of conversing too much with other people because he actually doesn't know how to act casual – mostly. He stays out of it as much as possible, though still – he has friends, treasured friends, of course, and he's never been bullied. Though **avoided **might more than likely be the word to take place instead.

The explanation of his daily environment may also provide to underline the reason as to why he has been quite unlucky in love life. Or just the fact that he's never really been in love. He has been lonely, and he still feels the pang of something sore in his chest when he sees a couple stroll down the streets – completely engrossed in each other, entwining hands. He wants it to be _him _who is holding someone's hand, face almost distant in absence by observing a significant other's features.

But then – there is _this_ strange man who promptly wades into his life, carrying his flamboyant smile and those heavenly green eyes. It is _not fair_. And Castiel fell, he fell so hard and cracked his skull on the pavement – in figurative language, of course, and he can't get up again from back then. He was ruthlessly fucked sore on the cold marble tiles of a kitchen counter by a stranger – a handsome, caring stranger who was easy to talk to. Who didn't care that Castiel had his way with words, who didn't mind his _gross_ and illegal (concerning the dresscode) trenchant and just _him_ altogether. It was a change, it was nice – and it was comfortable to Castiel. A prompt reminder that not all faith in humanity regarding what is mainstream, in and not- is lost.

And it all happened yesterday, Castiel can easily remark. He does his best not to do a penguin waddle when crossing the room to follow Balthazar, whom is very engrossed in choosing clothes and what not, mumbling like one of those fanatic fashionistas from those Runaway Catwalk programs.

He knows it's stupid, though – falling in love with just _someone_, a stranger – seemingly an one-night stand for people who doesn't know better. But _Dean_ had been the oner to offer after all, so now they are sort of dating, Castiel supposes. Sort of. He hopes that might be the case. The ache in his bum is to prove something having happened yesterday, and he innerly preaches that Balthazar will not notice any difference regarding his manners of walking. He had yesterday managed to successfully cover up the ache whilst walking among his parents, few of the two distracted maids, plus Anna and Balthazar. But today is _no_ – a simple _no_, because the first thing he felt when he woke up, was a pang of shitty pain devouring his anus from inside out. Ow, ow – bloody ow.

Balthazar appears in the frame of the entrance, looking more than proud with folded clothes scrambled in his embrace. He walks right past Castiel, letting the ruckus flop down onto the bed, whereas he separates each variant, looking quite concentrated. All the while Castiel continues to look indifferent, a few grimaces prodding at the surface of his attitude when he approaches Balthazar.

Balthazar has arranged three sets of clothes, each one containing at least _one_ accessory, in which does not include a digital watch – not any of them. Castiel visibly cringes. He _needs_ the watch – and he needs at least some sort of formal pattern, and if not, something completely plain. Not _this_.

The first set contains a grey t-shirt with the words '_**Ice C00L**_' scribbled, and if that isn't just ridiculous, Castiel really doesn't know what is. But he's partly interested, because he wants to be _interesting _ and attract attention, somehow. Just a bit, not much – but enough for people to spare glances at him, and not because he's wearing his beloved trench coat.

Anyhow, besides the shirt, the set contains a necklace, peculiar socks and _low-hanging pants_. ''I require a moment to mentally compile my common knowledge,'' he scoffs, blinking owlishly. How come he even _have_ that in his wardrobe. It looks like something Gabriel would wear, and he's _22. _Balthazar just grins, baring one of his foxy smirks as he moves on to another set. ''I do not know if..,'' Castiel trails off, eyeing the new set contented.

It's not bad.

The shirt is a delicate cream colour along with slender, almost fading stripes engraved, and a grey silk vest is to supply, buttons white with a very faint glow. The trousers are quite dark too, made of denim – the sewing threads that molds it together a dull orange, barely obvious. And thank The Lord- a coal black belt following suit. ''I...,'' Castiel prompts, furrowing his brows. ''I'd like this one,'' he says, holding the shirt up in front of him. Balthazar looks proud. ''You've got taste, brother.''

A finger is pulled in front of Castiel's face a second later, Balthazar wiggling it in a warning matter. ''No trench coat – trenchcoat free zone, Cassie.''

Castiel scowls – can not help not to, but thanks Balthazar for the help anyway and begins to dress himself.

Balthazar waits patiently on the bed, all the while flipping through a few pages of 'War & Peace', and Castiel doesn't mind. However, Balthazar seems to be a little too interested regarding who Castiel is to meet up with tonight. ''Where are you headed at? Can you at least be as merciful as to tell me such,'' Balthazar asks for what might be the third time. He shoots Castiel one of those expectant glares, eyeing him with vague interest, though not trying to pry in a degree that leaves him feeling uncomfortable. Castiel buttons the vest and turns to face him, a defiant expression covering his features. It quickly softens to something reminding of a smile, excited – perhaps a bit nervous. After all, he's just glad that Balthazar is taking interest.

''At... At Ellen's. He requested it.''

Balthazar looks nearly amazed, head hunched backwards with mouth hanging open. ''I didn't know you were into such places, Cassie!'' the next words sounds. He huffs distinctly, releasing a diminishing croak as he raises himself off the bed and the position he was finely nestled in. ''This is certainly interesting,'' he exclaims aloud, barely caring about the questioning expressions he gets from Castiel, whose head is held in a tilt. ''Is there any disturbances at mentioned place?'' He tentatively asks, sounding a bit worried for a moment.

Balthazar immediately shakes his head firmly. ''Nothing wrong at all, actually. I just didn't know that you would go along with such ideas. It is a bar, after all,'' he says, hands raised as if apologizing. ''But they serve magnificent burgers there,'' he continues.

Balthazar cuts off the raven haired man with a wooing noise, circling around him to observe every inch. ''My, my – Cassie. You look like a true, fashionable gentleman, I must say,'' he compliments. It is like Castiel's eyes light up, more blue than before, if even possible. ''You think so?'' He asks – cornering the state of disbelief.

''You can believe my every word,'' Balthazar promises. It is a rare sight that is currently displayed in front of him – Castiel, eager and so _alive_. Instead of passively rooting on the sideline, cherishing other people's happiness, he gets to mold his own path and happiness as well. He _wants_ to participate '_the game_' and believes in it.

In the midst of the conversing, Castiel turns around to take a peek at his mirror image once more, only to nearly turn blue by bestowing his digital watch a look in the process. (He chooses to wear it despite Balthazar's complaining)

His vibrant blue eyes skids over just about every inch of the room, insecure if he might forget something when he is to leave in a few seconds. Balthazar bats a hand at his shoulder, nudging for him to ''Get your bloody arse moving!''

''Yes – I, Do you – I can't- Wait,'' his breath is suddenly ragged, and all the can think of is **DeanDeanDeanDean**_**Dean.**_ He is connected to earth again when Balthazar cups his face and looks him dead in the eye and yaps: ''Go get him, **Tiger**,'' in the most american way he is capable of. It sounds whimsical, but is enough to snap Castiel out of his trance. Balthazar leads him downstairs, eyeing him in suspicion when remarking his peculiar way of walking, but doesn't comment on it. At least he won't do so yet. Castiel skids around the corner of the hall and enters the main hall, walking past the stairwell elegantly adorning midst the room, grabbing his trench coat.

He's about to plunge out of the huge gate, commonly known as a door in regular comprehension no matter size, when a hand gripping a fistful of his favorite coat holds him back in place. ''Uh- uh, uh,'' tuts a much lighter voice, and Castiel is surprised to find Anna withholding him from leaving. ''I think it'll be much better for you to wear this. Balthy won't mind, no?'' She hands him Balthazars black jacket, achieving the shabby trench coat in return and bares her pearl whites in a proud gesture.

In the belief that he may finally at least leave the _entrance_, he is only bewildered to be held back yet another time, this time the culprit being **Balthazar**. He stares down at the variant abruptly clamped into his fist, budging his fingers to look at it.

''**No**,'' Castiel chokes. ''May _**I**_?''

''Oh, yes. I wish you all kind of luck, Cassie,'' he grins, Anna standing behind him, sharing just as much amusement. Castiel beams a smile at them and nearly jumps a bit, so _goddamn_ excited he can't hold it in. It seems like he's a child by the treatment given, despite the fact that he just achieved the keys to Balthazar's black_ Mustang._

* * *

The sun is ever so slowly disappearing behind the clouds far away, only leaving a lazy orange colour to light up the sky with what last glow it has, languidly attempting to reach the farthest corners of the town, though soon diminishing. Castiel – with admittedly much complications, manages to coordinate his way toward Ellen's. _A bar_, Castiel thinks. Even this word is so foreign – completely unfamiliar to him. An inner part of him wishes that it is not, wishes that he is not sweating as much underneath his neatly chosen clothes as he currently is. His fingers drums over the leather-bound steering wheel, humming softly – thus attempting to soothe the nervous feeling tingling the nerves and muscles in his fingers. He takes a deep, deep inhale, putting aside an extra amount of seconds to feel how the air rests in his lungs – puffing his chest up - whirring, and then- _Exhale_. Slowly, counting to ten. And then another inhaling, guarded and soothing.

It is going to be okay, he tells himself, closing his eyes.

A car bleeping loudly at him, sending him nearly scurrying into a sidetrack rips him out of his trance immediately. He observes how the stranger's car drives up beside him, a woman behind the steering wheel mouthing the most obnoxious words to him before driving off again, Castiel eyeing her, feeling apologetic and a little reckless.

* * *

The place is hooded, dark – a wood cabin standing lonesome a little away from the city. A Neon-sign attached to the building's front says 'Harvelle's Roadhouse', and Castiel suddenly understands why he had such a hard time finding it. People usually names it Ellen's, because that is the owner of the bar's name, and considering how popular the place is – and as inquired, the woman as well, most people, usually regular costumers, names it Ellen's. Castiel is baffled.

The gravel is crunchy underneath his shoes for each step he takes, leaving a satisfying sound of life-affirming quirks to whir his brain awake completely. There is not too many people, but not few either. He can remark said facts judging by the cars parked outside the building – Castiel choosing to park his a little further away, hid in the dark. The sky is almost black by now, a few lonesome stars appearing, few mingling in with the others. Thousands of light-years away, and yet they seem so close. Like you can pluck them off the night sky with a swirp of your wrist. Sometimes Castiel feels like one. A lonely star, twinkling somewhere – and people look, but they can't reach him. He screams for help, but everyone are light-years away, despite seeming so close.

He sighs.

Stepping inside with a push of the swing-doors, the temperature fluctuates almost immediately. A wave of warmth is spilled upon his face, followed by the bitter stench of alcohol and smoke. The sudden change in temperature leaves him a bit light-headed, though nonetheless, he carries on, grimacing. Dean should be here by now, so he doesn't mind. He can overcome it easily.

Expectantly observing the people comfortably spread in the huge room, he analyses the enviroment gradually as well. They all look different – not a single one sporting the same style, and it's nice. Though still, they seem very seasoned in manners Castiel definitely _isn't_, and he is happy to notice that no one is in the bar, despite a pretty blonde woman cleaning some glasses behind the counter. Approaching warily, he takes the seat in the middle. By doing so, he isn't breaching the woman's boundaries – and isn't too close to the tattooed males (in the mind of Castiel) flaunting their strong arms in the other end at their bay. He sighs - again, a little weakly this time.

Minutes passes.

It's half past eight by now. Castiel did, surprisingly, make it before the 'deadline', but Dean still isn't here. He's probably just a little slow, of course. He's been waiting for a half hour now, staring at nothing but the thin air onward, besides occasionally sparing glances at the room and people surrounding him. He can feel the woman's glare bore into his skull, but he doesn't turn his head – he doesn't look back. From now on, his gaze is lingering on the bottle of beer held in his hand. He shifts it between two hands, elbows propped onto the counter. He has been taught how to behave better, sit a little straighter, but it's getting late – and nothing is happening. anticipation is still buzzing lightly under his skin, the ache in his rear-end reminding him of why he is here. Something in his stomach flutters, and he smiles into the bottle as he takes a swig, oddly uncaring of the amount he ingests for each gulp.

* * *

He looks down at his digital watch.

21:17 pm.

An hour and seventeen minutes has passed altogether. No sign of the dirty-blonde male, and the woman is still sparing suspicious glances at him, once in a while offering him another beer, though he is to decline, not seeking drunkenness. The people keep coming. Realizing it must be an all nighter this weekend – and that lots of _different_ people will arrive and depart, he vaguely considers leaving. He doesn't seek trouble, the fright of people thinking wrong of him settling an uneventful feeling in his gut.

He shakes the thought off his head, grimacing at the suggestion. No, he can't do that. Can't.

Dean will be here.

He will.

* * *

23:27 pm, the woman stands before him, on the other side of the counter, vague concern painted in her chestnut brown eyes. ''Hey there, dude,'' she greets, lowering herself by mirroring Castiel's position, elbows propped onto the counter as she leans a little back. ''You' waiting for someon'?''

Castiel is about to tell her a soft no, to lie – like people usually do, because private things are not to be shared. But he feels weird, he feels empty, but at the same time filled. The ache in his rear-end isn't very noticeable anymore, and instead, something dry commences in his throat. He feels like he can't speak. His voice comes out gravelly, a: ''Yes.''

She bites her lower lip, somehow in a mix between dismay and knowing anger. Castiel can see that she is a good person. It is just a feeling.

''Who?''

This time, he does look back, he tilts his head upwards and straightens his back, something weird twitching in his jaw as their eyes meet. The commencing _thing_ in his throat grows snug – as if blocking his air passage. He closes his eyes, taking a deep, deep breath until the bad smelling air whirs uncomfortably in his lungs. ''A guy,'' he mutters under his breath, making a little gesture with his hand, as if to point out the words: doesn't matter anyway. She doesn't back away, doesn't even seem to consider letting the idea cross her mind. ''What's his name?''

He can not speak. He want's to shape the syllable on his tongue, tell her the guy's name, but it feels like she _knows_. He can not. His knuckles are turning white, eyes sent travelling down to the empty beer bottle standing in front of him. He is not drunk – only got one beer, but it feels like he is in a haze, lost in an abyss where he can not see, he can not hear, he can not smell. He feels like he is drowning, and he does not know why. The air around him feels suffocating. The first step is odd, shifting his weigt on his feet as he raises himself. He went on the toilet about an hour ago, whereas Dean still didn't arrive. He isn't here. He won't come.

The woman follows suit, performing worry with her body language as she reaches out for his wrist, grabbing it to tug him back. ''What's your name?'' She then asks, and Castiel stops. He tilts his head askew and stares directly into her eyes, mouth slowly moving, like it's an agony for him to pronounce. ''Castiel.'' He is Castiel. Castiel.

He is Castiel.

Castiel.

Castiel is him.

He is Castiel.

Castiel.

**Castiel is him. **

''I'm Castiel,'' he _croaks_, and he observes how her pupils shrinks in torment, in frustration - as her grip around his wrists grows tighter in a somehow reassuring tug. And then he realizes that something warm and wet is trickling down his cheeks, his sight turning weary, tired – blurry. This obnoxious knot is shaping in his the pit of his stomach, these _feelings_ welling up in his eyes.

He slips his hand out of her grip, perhaps a little too harshly, but with the right tug, she lets him go. Turning around, he does not wait. He does not look at the other people – there are no one, but himself. He can not hear the woman say his name, he can not hear anything but his temples throbbing. He leaves.

Every step seems implausible, like his limbs are just _there_. Just there to _hang_, and he feels useless. The feeling of impotence rushing in over him in waves. It stands clear to him, as if engraved into his brain, scribbled in manners unable to erase.

He does not want to be Castiel.

Castiel must not be him.

He can not be Castiel.

**Castiel is not him. **

The persistent tears will not stop, and when he takes his first step outside, his eyes are stinging by the wave of sudden frigid air. It feels different, it rests in his lungs and hurts. He tries to inhale more ,and he does it, he continues to devour the pain. He takes a few steps but abruptly stops, clutching his stomach tightly with both of his arms swung around it, pressing there. Then – in a wisk of a cold breeze dawning upon him, he leans forward and lets it all out. He vomits with a thick sound of a throaty cry, and he can feel a hand on his back. He tries to sink to his knees, but the hands wont let him.

How _stupid_ can he be?

How _foolish_ can he be?

How_ absolutely_** reckless**, **dreamy**, **pompous** and **impotent **can he be?

He is not an adult!

He is nothing!

He can not even get his mind straight!

He is _**CHEAP**_.

And for _**WHO?**_

Dean _wend..._

**A man whom he does not even remember the name of! **

How _naive!_

How _pathetic!_

He sold himself to someone who threw him away. He should have known. He should have known the moment _the man_ said '**'We can be whatever you want us to be.'' **

**'Boyfriend'? **

Added like it was a comment, a joke – only to provide the conversing. The flamboyant smirk. He knew. He knows. It does not belong to him – and it never will. He is stupid, he is naive, he is pompous for thinking that he owns anyones interest. And he had himself prepared – because he know, he knew that when he turned around the corner and out of sight, he would **never **see **Dean** again.

And it _**hurts**_.

It hurts so much. Because he knew. It was a one-night stand, but he had felt _something. But f_or a man he had known for _less than five hours_?

His first love?

_Pathetic!_

''**I knew,**'' He yells at nothing - between the tremors, now settled on the ground with a hand supporting his front and back, keeping him from falling – from losing himself. It eases out of his throat, this time, whines, small sobbing noises that are choked from his hitched breathing. He is hyperventilating, chest heaving rapidly until another tremor sparks in, and he leans forward to release more content, the beer, his dinner. He sits like that until he has nothing left in his stomach, saving for the empty hole – the icing feeling of betrayal, impotence and stinging sadness, humiliation. He can hear soothing noises in the background, realizing it is coming right next to him. The young, blonde woman is holding his back, running her hand along his spine whilst another lady has joined in, seemingly older, perching up with small babbles that provides easing his nerves.

He is _humiliated_, and _embarrassed._

He is embarrassed this is happening – that he's showing this _rude_ behavior in front of them. He is not worthy their concern, he thinks – he tries to swat them off, to handle it himself – but they stay by his side. They ask him where is car is, where he lives. He swallows another desperate outburst, answering with a strangled, foreign voice.

* * *

The younger woman drives him home. She is about the same age as Castiel. Despite the tempting urge to just close his eyes and drift off, to _forget- _seems within his reach, he does not. He stays awake, and he barely prevents from clamping his mouth shut when another tremor shoots through his system.

''Jo.'' She says, and Castiel blinks.

''Jo is my name. The other woman is my mother, Ellen.''

Her eyes are soft now, and she reaches a hand out to ruffle through Castiel's hair. She reminds him of _him_. But he leans into the touch anyway, because that is the most comfort he can get right now. She is kind, and she does not seem to mind his existence. ''Thanks,'' he croaks, sniffing lightly.

''You're welcome.''

* * *

He can hear muffled voices thundering in the back of his head, and then the feeling of being lifted, his limbs numb, dangling as the familiar, english accent streams within his mind. ''Balthy,'' he groans, rubbing his eyes – though surprised at how _fatigued_ he is. How every simple limb seems too _heavy_, and he feels like he is burning. Other familiar, soothing voices joins in. Anna, mother – father. He attempts to smile – for their sake, but he can not. He can not.

The next thing he know is that he is in his own bed, laying comfortably underneath the covers. Rain is splattering against the windows outside, and he can hear the trees give in to the rapid wind whooshing through them, making them crane and creak. He does not recognize the presence of someone else being in the room before a voice chats up. It is Anna.

''Cassie?'' She whispers. The bed creaks the slightest from the pressure of her weight, and he moves closer. He can feel a hand on his forehead, and afterwards the hand cradles down to cup his face. He opens his eyes languidly, eyes drooping. ''Your head is burning,'' she explains shortly after, genuine worry evident in her voice. ''Anna,'' Castiel sighs in return.

''_Shhhh._ Sleep. I love you. **We love you**.''

He does not feel like he deserves it.

He can not compete.

He wants to tell her no, to make her understand.

''Don't,'' he says – and it turns out more like a distant sob.

The last time he felt this alone was when all of his brothers were gone, including his sister. Moved out on forehand, about to shape their futures. When his mother was on a business trip, and his father was, too.

He feels so alone.

* * *

Enjoyable? Let me know. 8)

Thank you for reading.


	3. WHOA THERE, STRANGER!

Hey! I thank you for the patience. It is really late here in Denmark, and I have to go to sleep now – school tomorrow. I will be really busy this week, so there will possibly not be an update for quite awhile. My apologies!

I really do not know how colleges work, so I apologize for any mistakes occurring. You are more than welcome to share your knowledge and make me aware of my mistakes.

Anyway, this chapter is certainly one of its own. Castiel is a little sassmaster at occasions– well, his mind is, despite not showing it on the outside. Dean just has a tendency to bring out these **wonderful** sides of Castiel.

Had to stop it abruptly, because I could not wait to post it. Would it be appropriate with some... well, cough. Um. Make up sex? I doont knoowwww, I mean- maaaybeee. Haven't even made it that far in the story so far, oh my.

Thank you for reading it! Make sure to leave a comment – it's my medicine to stay alive!

Enjoy!

* * *

It has been raining in varied periods for a whole week now, and something peculiar lingers to each droplet hitting the pavement. Castiel happens to let his wild imagination run free – to imagine it being his tears. The tears he no longer in public may shed, because he is _over it – _the words has been spoken, been confirmed among those who knows. Regarding whatever situation he stands in, he must be over _it_. Of course, he has meticulously refrained from spilling the juicy details about Castiel and _his_ encounter, only mentioned that they were to date, but _he_ never showed up. He has not flaunted his mournful state – far from it, barely got the chance. He's stayed indoor, and he refuses to tell his parents, sister and brother who the _culprit_ is. They regard _him_ as a culprit, but Castiel perks up at it for every time _he_ is mentioned, saying that it was his very own fault as well.

They are just never meant to be,

whether they are offered the luxury to date or not,

and that is fine.

He still mentally assures himself that it is his own fault – for believing in such dreamy words yapped from a wistful stranger. A wistful stranger who he has fallen in love with in such a short, shameful amount of time. He must perceive the current situation with eyes bound to understand the simplicity. It was a one night stand, _obviously_. What Castiel yet is to learn is that the process does not contain a happy-ever-after, but a boosted satisfaction of urges fulfilled and ego multiplied. But the ache – not the physical one; the mental one... The deep, lulling ache that keeps appearing at most surprising times, at times whereas he is supposed to appreciate life and what it contains. Conversing, laughing, moving – the beautiful display of the energy buzzing from every ounce of organisms and even what is not certified as being alive. The ache withholds him in the belief that the_ love_ may still be apparent – that not every one-night stand is just a short-term experience. But is it love; seen from the eyes of _him_?

But he can't, and he knows why. He isn't over it, not with both legs planted firmly and rooted in the ground on the other side – the side whereas hope remains evident and close, not to mention desperate. Whatever consolation he may be capable of gaining or constitute himself, the greatest comfort is to be that he will never see the man again. He will never have to confront those exotic green eyes, those plump lips – the dirty-blonde hair, the strong shape – the brave attitude, the charming smile – **the man. **

He will not.

And gathered altogether,

that suits his mind just fine.

* * *

It is the 14. August, a dry day in a state of Nebraska. The rain has stopped drooping, and instead the warmth and wind of very early autumn takes place - summer's warm breezes mingling in between. Castiel is attending a college – or university, so to speak, for the first time. He's nervous, nerves tingling underneath his skin, but also incredibly excited. participating results that he will be challenged further in his abilities – and become able to improve his weak points. This year, he wants to attend PE in a rightful state. He has exercised material arts for very long – began at the tender age of six (matter of sense to the Novak family, of course), but have not practised for at least more than a year. Decided against it, and have not done much of any other _sporty_ activities. He has to get back into shape what goes for his condition – which means he will have less time for reading. He does not want to lose weight, already skinny, but wants to assign a lot of his attention regarding his muscles. After getting more than a great view of... _**that man's**_ body, he has considerably observed his own shape with critical eyes.

As aforementioned, it is the first day after a long, satisfying summer vacation. People are streaming back and forth, and a whole crowd has gathered in front of the huge building that is soon to be a common display to Castiel. The sun is held high on the sky, fresh rays shining with piercing glory throughout the environment – warming Castiel's pale cheeks with a tender glow. If the weather is to continue being this significant, he is sure he might sport some freckles sooner or later. The grass is still humid from dew and rain during the night, seeping a bit through the navy fabric of Castiel's flat converse shoes. Yes. Converse shoes.

Castiel has offered himself the luxury to follow Balthazar's advises cornering his sense of fashion, and the thing Castiel least wants to do – is to stand out. Or bore people to death from the appearance of his clothes as well. At the current time he is wearing a gray t-shirt whereas the words 'Genius' is scribbled in various languages, followed by a light blue denim jacket and some black pants. -And his beloved watch, still nearly glued to his left wrist. It is not overwhelming, and frankly, goddamn far from it – but it is a beginning, after all.

He caresses his hair with his left hand – fondling it gently, gaining that feather-light feature which people seem to enjoy so much, apparently. He does not enjoy the lot in particular, so many people swarming back and forth next, behind and in front of him – it is making him dizzy. Though, nonetheless, he can not wait for the lectures to begin. What he does know is that this is not the first day in an elementary school, and people are not getting praised from flopping their asses down onto the chairs and subsequently actually listening to the lessons. It is a do or die situation (Castiel perceives his grades with very critical eyes), you either listen or get out. Despite not having been in the mood for any public places lately, he will not leave or fall behind due anxiety. Sure, he can afford it, but he has settled some firm goals to achieve, and he wont go down easily.

Getting a basic view of the school is another story, though. The building(s) is enormous according to Castiel, and his gaze is sent from another corner of the room to the next, exploring them vividly. He can not really enjoy it fully, taking into account how many people are wandering around and blocking his view. A few couple of times is he about to face the floor, and at a different time he is the one accidentally shoving an unlucky person aside. He truly does feel light-headed all of sudden.

He hopes he will be sharing the same lessons as Meg and Chuck – perhaps Jo, eyes sent scanning the area for the mentioned individuals, searching meticulously whilst leaning against a locker with his bag resting on his right hip, the straps flung across his chest and back askew, held up by his left shoulder. As he is about to move on, he is met by two chestnut brown eyes staring up at him, nearly taking a step back in surprise as Jo closes in on him, tugging him closer in a gut-clenching hug.

To underline the reasoning as to why he has surprisingly bonded with Jo, the explanation remains that Jo had uninvited showed up in front of the gates leading to his mansion about three times throughout the last week. It was, indeed, very peculiar – but he found out that she had taken interest in him since _that_ night (the first time she showed up was the day after). Though, for a moment he had been worried that she might have warm feelings for him, and he was relieved when she bubbled with laughter and told him no, explaining to him that she already has a boyfriend named Rick. She has promptly spoken to him, and Castiel let her – because he found out that she is actually really nice, not to mention very independent. She is brave and humorous, if not a bit harsh sometimes, but very kind. She does not mind Castiel's sprinkled vocabulary either. He tenderly hugs her back with a genuine smile playing across his lips. She should be a stranger to him – only known her for a little less than a week, but somehow, she is not. She reminds him a bit too much of _him_, and it _hurts_, but he tries to fully ignore it anyway. However, what is odd is that she always has this... _knowing_ look glazed upon her eyes, as if she knows his pain and knows what he is going through.

But... despite all of it, she is patient and supporting, and Castiel truly enjoys her company.

''Are ya' feelin' any better?'' She questions after the usual greetings, cocking a brow when they break apart. She places her hands on her hips in a determined position, once in a while flickering a few strands of dirty-blonde hair out of her face from the dawning breezes due the constantly opened entrance of the halls. She really does remind him of someone – that someone being a certain someone. Not even within his mind does he have the gut or pride to _'think_' it aloud_._ A sigh seethes through his teeth, and he adjusts the straps connected to his bag timidly. ''I go by the belief that I am under the progress of recovering the occasions, but I am still...,'' he trails off, unsure of how to describe it. ''Sad,'' he says – because what else is there to add? It is a fine, simple word that covers incredibly many feelings, and this time also the ones Castiel is undergoing.

Jo nods, because she _understands_, and she does not question it any further, but promptly snakes her hand into the empty space of his and tugs him ahead. He quizically stays back for a while, all but perplexed at her sudden enthusiasm and actions. She only yanks him harder, eager for him to follow her. But even though she seems eager, there is also something peculiar about her eyes – the emotions, the caution laying within the orbs as she stalks ahead with him following suit. She seems to know the halls and various of rooms expertly, guiding him forward and along the lenght of the hall they are currently situated in. She greets a few of the people passing by, besides that just walking forward in a determined pace. Castiel catches up with her so that they are walking beside each other, and when they round the next corner she lifts her hand high above her head in a wave.

From a distance, a tall, somewhat skinny man stands, unruly dark brown hair rounding his face. He catches a glimpse of Jo standing amidst the crowd, resulting in him to wave back just as enthusiastically. Beside him, other two men and a woman stands, the males´ backs turned to Castiel as they obviously intrigued are conversing with the dark haired woman. The woman does first notice them when they are halfway through the distance, Jo literally dragging Castiel along by now. ''Jo, this is truly unneccessary I-'' He stammers, eyes comically widening in what might be identified as fear. Fear of what? Social performances, of course. ''Bullshit, Cassie! These are ma' friends, dont worry,'' she cooes, smiling greatly at him.

He can do this. It is gonna be okay – as long as he does not speak too much. Just stand, watch, listen, smile and wave – it will all be okay.

Inhaling deeply, he encourages himself mentally, closing his eyes briefly and opening them again. They are just a few meters apart from the certain group when he can feel his insides churn, something obnoxious shaping within the pit in his stomach. A simple tilt. A simple move – a motion to the left as the other males are turning around, questioning who the newcomer is and greeting Jo – he sees it – in a reflect of the light when his face is no longer shadowed, his eyes – the green, green eyes – _**looking back at him.**_

He can't breathe for awhile, stopping abruptly as he watches how the pupils of the exotic green orbs shrinks in surprise, in bewilderment. The strong jaw, the solid form – the height, the brave attitude – everything. Returned – standing alive and sparking in front of him, a sight he never thought he would have to see again. He wonders why he had not noticed before from watching his back – the masculine, promising shape and broad shoulders – why he had not, because now he can not notice anything but _him_. The woman babbling behind him turns quiet when she watches Dean's reaction, but Castiel does not notice her. He can not see anyone but _**Dean**_, people in the background glowering into a blur of unfamiliar faces.

He tries to move – he tries to get out of Jo's grip, but she has got a vice grip on him, once more attempting to tug Castiel forward. She had known – and she knows that it was **Dean**, judging from the looks she has displayed all along – the meaningful promises resting underneath the surface of her chestnut brown eyes. However – and a bit surprisingly, Castiel is not mad at her. He is not mad, and something quizzically humorous bubbles in his veins when he can see how a blue mark is sporting its way brilliantly around Dean's right eye, just recovered from swelling. Satisfaction flows throughout his system for a bright while, and then- then the anger, sadness, anxiety, relief and **want** takes place. All these feelings mixed together into a tight knot emerging in his tummy. Scrap of memories appears in his mind as well – up to no good. His breath turns erratic, and once more, he does a brave attempt to wiggle his hand out of Jo's grip, taking a hurried step backwards. Dean is just as mortified, it seems – but he steps forward, inquiring and intriguing, so tauntingly delicious and absolutely (fucking) stupid as his jaw clenches, showing uneasiness across his features. But there is also warmth – fondness, and other whole different variants playing there. Relief. Bewilderment. Happiness. Anxiety. **Regret**.

Castiel may even feel a little sympathy for the look he is recieving, the way his those plump lips fall agabe, quivering slightly – unsure of what to formulate.

Castiel can hear his temples throbbing feriociously, blocking his ability to hear everyone move around him; the way Jo repeats his name in worry – thundering with altogether pecularity, and he takes yet another step away – more and more for each step Dean approaches with. And as Dean moves again, it is the last straw. Apologetic and frantic, he yanks his hand out of Jo's now sweaty hand with an unexpected tug, and he eyes her briefly, watching how she withdraws her hand in surprise. Just when he is about to turn around, he can feel his feet tangled in the straps of his bag, easing off his shoulders in the process and dumping right in front of his feet. He is about to hurridly pick it up again, though does not have the time for it – his common knowledge gone at the moment, instead noticing how Dean is way too close again.

The next thing he knows, is that he must leave – get away, as far as possible. He settles his feet into a haul of running, uncaring of what is happening behind him. He nearly trips over his own feet when he can hear the husky voice yell his name; the shortened version – ''Cas!''

But he overcomes it with what pride he has stored left, continuing as his shoes are tapping strenuously against the linoleum floor when he makes his way through the crowded hall – not located at anywhere particular, just needs to get away from _him_.

He, with short apologetic murmurs, shoves a few people aside, sometimes close to falling himself. He only stops when rounding another corner, inhaling remotely whilst ever so slowly drawing up in his sleeve in order to take a peek at the time. If his parents are not, he is going to skin himself alive when the day is over. There are two minutes left until the first lessons are to begin - starting with Science. His bag is left from where it had slipped off – hopefully now clamped in Jo's embrace. He will be meeting up without any books – nothing at all.

Clamping his eyes shut, he aggravated rubs two fingers against the brink of his nose.

* * *

Despite not having anything to write with – any paper to scribble on, he managed to endure the first couple of lessons without being skinned alive. There are incredibly many people to be taught the individual necessities, but no one really seemed to mind Castiel for now attending fully prepared. He got a few couple of comments; such as ''Too bad for you, man,'' - ''you haven't brought a pencil?'' and things alike. That is when he remembers that you are on your own – and that everyone are the masters of their own fate. But, nonetheless, a person next to him loaned him her pencil and some paper from her notebook, smiling kindly – chatting briefly.

He was still anxious – pondering about his own state, how he managed to survive so far. His skin is tingling, eyes flickering constantly to the door, expecting the dirty-blonde man to appear anytime. What makes him so frustrated is that he is not sure if he may identify these frictions slowly molding are either excitement, anger, happiness or sorrow. He can not chose between them, because unluckily, a part of him is lusting after the green eyed man, the kindness and his flamboyant smile. He considers throwing himself out of the window for a short amount of time.

* * *

Third lesson is PE, and fuck if he has got the profite clothes stored in his bag. He sullenly enters the changing room, relieved to see how no one is there, all already having changed. He is a little late, but he is ought to tell the teacher about his current... situation. That he has forgotten his clothes that is, of course.

However, he is taken aback to spot his white bag (with two fancy night black angel wings shrivelling across each side of it and the words; ''Possessed by an angel'' scribbled in small letters – angel being highlighted and remarkably visable. Gabriel is the sinner who bought the bag and begged for him to take use of it) slumped on one of the benches. Right next to a plaid and olive green shirt and denim pants – a very familiar pattern of clothes. Could it really be? Why, yes – of course.

Castiel mutters unprofitable curses under his breath, all the while inside his head preaching that nothing bad will happen to him during the rest of the day, solemnly clasping his palms together when finished changing. The lessons have already begun, but nobody notices him sneaking in and discreetly hiding in the back of the crowd, and he sighs softly, carding a hand through his mussed hair. Though, his luck does not count for very long. He is nearly toppling over and onto his bum when the crowd parts in two, and what he assumes is the teachers stands in the opposite end of the crowd, pointing at the very Novak with a determined gesture. He must have spotted him anyway – in his attempt to blend in.

''Hey there...?'' The man trails off, inquring a wish to be shared the simple information which is Castiel's name. Castiel shifts, a bit nervous, but steps forward, saying; ''Castiel. My name is Castiel.'' He gets a somewhat questioning glare in return from the man, who in reality is not very old himself – if not only five to seven years older than Castiel, not very tall but muscular built. A few students repeats his name, tasting and varying it like it is a foreign should perhaps flip them off and respond with a; _''Never read the Bible before? Ugh_,'' like they do in some of the movies he has watched, despite the Bible not being mentioned. He really does not know how to react phsycially – how to behave, how to _everything_.

The teacher just nods and indicates for him to step forward again, and Castiel does, warily – with hundreds of eyes following his every movement. ''Do ya' know how to play lacrosse?'' The teacher asks, picking up some sort of stick with a net at the end of it. Castiel tilts his head. ''I have definitely heard of it and seen it live on television, but I do not know what the activity contains altogether,'' he answers, awfully honest. The teacher looks a bit grim, wrinkling his nose up in frustration. ''I've just taught the others 'bout it, so if yer wanna join, yer gotta learn how ta' play it. Tho, I ain't doing it again, caus' we got some lacrosse to play. Mind if one perty student teaches ya' mighty ass ta' play it? - And for another time, dont be late.'' He says, downright rude considering the way he labels Castiel. Teachers are different after all, he supposes. He was told that nobody would notice if you were to be late, because it is your own loss after all. This is humiliating. Castiel sucks in a breath, but nonetheless shakes on his head. ''I do not mind.'''

* * *

Ears tinted with pink, he stays aside and waits on the sideline. They are outside, and the wind is frisky – a content whisper of a nice flutter along his arms, and so is the sun, warm and life-affirming. His eyes scans the field and he watches with interest as the game unfolds, the people teamed up and scattered, either chatting playfully or taking part in the game. It is interesting, and he likes to observe their demeanour, the beauty in humanity. It is a shame that most people can not see it. But they are not ones to perceive themselves with a strangers set of eyes as they laugh, smile, sigh, eat, sleep – all those things. They do not see themselves and the features playing across their faces as they _live_ and enjoy the moments given with friends, family or strangers. However, Castiel knows he is being guilty of double standards – because he is one to critically slate down himself perhaps a little too often. He did not usually do such, but hey, puberty is a mess.

He is snapped back into reality when a large hand connects to his shoulder, warm and inviting – and he turns around to find one certain person staring back.

''Oh fuck me,'' Castiel babble in reflex – quoting someone from some movie he does not remember, but he feels content now to swear – after _that _occurrence. He shivers visably, clamping a hand over his mouth as he clenches his jaw in order to shut his mouth completely, realizing what he had just said. Dean is a bit taken aback, in a mix between surprise and worry, plus something else. Before Castiel can protest any further and wimp away like he had before, Dean chimes in with a; ''Lacrosse.'' Quick and firm, like a vice to keep him at bay so that he does not run away again. Of all people, Dean has been chosen to guide him this fine day. Despite not having much knowledge about movies – more entitled to books, this seems like some brilliant cliché romance movie. Except it is not. Luck is just fucking around, and not with Castiel per se.

However astounding it may be, Castiel is not... just as nervewracked as before, and frankly – he feels... normal? Content? Okay?

Something must definitely be wrong with his body, or just his mentality overall. He follows Dean's movements with cautious eyes, aware of what temptation is every so snugly lingering to his whole aura. But also the explanation as to why he did not show up. A sudden surge of embarrassment is wavering over him, pondering why he reacted as he did. He feels stupid for making such a simple thing into a complicated, emotion twisted thing. He feels so, so stupid – and at the same time a bit distant. Does he really belong anywhere after all? Such a peculiar, oddling like him?

''Snap out of it,'' Dean murmurs quietly, snapping his fingers in front of Castiel's face, and hey, if that is not rude then Castiel does not know what is. Did he feel okay before? To hell with that. Screw Dean and his way of perceiving love as a sullen game. ''Clotpole...,'' he hisses through gritted teeth, lips drawn in a tight line. Dean looks up from where he stands, two of those remarkable sticks in his hands. He cocks a brow, ''What was that?''

''Rude, for one thing,'' he seethes in return, gesturing towards Dean with two open hands as if he is being a culprit for _existing. _Castiel has never acted like this before – courtsey being a matter of course, but goddamn – now he is _mad_. Though, aware of the teacher standing from a distance and probably watching them, he does not do anything reckless.

When they are done, Castiel is going to storm out of the building and _go home_. He does not care if Dean wants to apologize – because he _probably_ wont, and he'll _probably _also turn him down in the progress, and frankly – Castiel does not want to compete with any of it. Just attending college recently – as in to-fucking-day, hoping for a new journey to parcipate in, and instead he has been settled into a whole another story that he does not want to be a part of. Never hoped he would experience. Only in his _some _dreams, but that is a whole another story.

Dean teaches him how to play lacrosse – it goes well, but the tension is thick enough to visably be cut in half. They do not speak of _it_, they dont speak of anything but talks casually – or in reality, does not talk at all. Castiel _accidentally_ strikes Dean's crotch with the ball a couple of times when he is to throw, feeling a nauseating satisfaction bubbling within him, along with guilt and what not. If Dean does not want to date him, then that is **okay**. Honestly, Castiel wants to be a good guy – and a good guy does not hate another person for not returning his feelings. It is actually pretty hilarious to Castiel that he is discussing this inside his head, taking into account how he still has barely known the guy for eight hours and does not remember his middle name. _Fantastic_.

* * *

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